


The King of Carrot Flowers

by apollos



Category: South Park
Genre: Abortion, Depression, Divorce, F/M, Hipsters, Illegal Activities, M/M, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollos/pseuds/apollos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through everything and through all, they learned what each other's bodies were for. Or, Stan and Kyle grow up and deal with all the things that come their way. Conceptual with root in Neutral Milk Hotel's In The Aeroplane Over The Sea album.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is conceptual and based off of Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea album; each chapter is titled after and has root in a track from the album.

In his room, on a thigh-high cabinet beneath his window, Stan has a record player. Inside the cabinet is his considerable collection of records organized alphabetically as a result of Kyle's neuroses, most of them of the crooning men and crowing women of at least thirty years ago variety, though his favorite rests halfway in its cover on top of the cabinet. The oft-played and thus slightly scratched dull black vinyl of In The Aeroplane Over the Sea shimmers in the slightest way in the mid afternoon sunlight as Stan walks over to it. He picks up the record and pulls it fully from the cover, setting the cover back down and cradling the disc in his hand. To Stan, the record is the only religion he needs, his sole object of worship, his soul in sound. He knows the lyrics and the rhythms by heart after a year of playing the album almost exclusively on repeat, first stumbling upon Holland, 1945 on Youtube one afternoon in eighth grade and falling in love. He talked about the record nonstop until his ramblings faltered out and he grew silent and pensive at the mention of it. Something in it had moved him deeply and profoundly like nothing else had ever been able to again, and though his back is to him, Kyle can see it in every muscle of Stan's body as he fingers the vinyl before sliding it, smoothly and carefully, into the record player. He drops the needle and turns up the volume as the sound scratches upon the first track.

Noise fills Kyle's ears; his brain dulls. Stan turns to Kyle, slowly, and Kyle still can't see Stan's eyes because he now has them closed. Stran sways, slightly, and forms his mouth around the lyrics of The King of Carrot Flowers, Pt 1. Kyle never liked Neutral Milk Hotel and never pretended to-it was pretentious, loud try-hard hippie music made by a guy with an unhealthy obsession with Anne Frank's Diary and proven mental illness-but he never quite voiced this opinion, fascinated by Stan's obsession. Stan's eyes pop open as Jeff Magnum's voice picks up over I love you Jesus Christ, Stan mimicking the warbly movements of Magnum's vocals with his lips,and he makes his way towards Kyle. He wraps his arms around Kyle; in response, Kyle curls his hands around Stan's shoulder blades. A recent growth spurt has left Stan four inches taller than Kyle, who hasn't grown since the seventh grade and doubts he'll ever climb taller than 5'5. This doesn't bother him as much a it should, he thinks, with his head under Stan's nose. Stan says, "Dance with me." into Kyle's hair, his voice different than usual, thick and croaky, and so they dance.

It's a familiar scene, four o'clock on a Friday, after school, just getting home for a sleepover at Stan's following hanging out with Cartman and Kenny for a little while, dancing to the same old songs. Kyle has a test on Monday in English that he has to study for and that's what he's thinking about as he steps around in small circles, recalling vocabulary words and matching them with definitions. He knows that they'll repeat this motion for the entire forty minutes of the record like they always do, and maybe he likes it a little too much to admit to anybody but himself on occasion. Sometimes he and Stan hold hands, but that's another thing he refuses to admit that he likes so well except to himself, and even then when he thinks about it his brain becomes foggy, solutions to his predicament just out of reach. Stan's hands stay on his hips for the entirety of the dancing; Kyle's hands move downwards as his fingers grow tired and end up on the small of Stan's back. Stan feels sturdy beneath his touch, not strong nor muscular but durable and long-lasting, like furniture fastened of pine and cedar, which is also what Stan smells like. Kyle eventually moves his hands to Stan's chest, feeling the soft flannel of his shirt on his palms and drawing lazy circles with his left index finger, and Stan hugs him tighter. Kyle inhales Stan's scent, surrounded by stability; Kyle has always known the true extent of Stan's sturdiness.

The album ends and they separate as groggily as always, almost unwillingly, and today Stan grabs Kyle's hand urgently before they're completely separated. He laces their fingers and doesn't let go but directs his eyes towards their shoes. Kyle does, too. Stan wears basic sneakers, Kyle wears loafers, and he feels like their shoes don't match their personalities in the slightest. The touches are not electric nor sexual but from a different source of urge, of need, and Kyle pulls his fingers around Stan's, squeezing his hand hard. It's easier to love such a gesture in the midst of experiencing it, Stan not judging him and partaking in the loving, than it is when Kyle is alone and obsessing over what it means to never want to let go.

"Do you think I'm lame?" Stan asks after a few seconds of squeezing back and forth. He looks up, through the mop of black hair that he needs to get cut, and Kyle meets his eyes. Then Kyle feels the electric shock, feels something burst in his chest and travel through his body quickly as his heartbeat picks up. Stan twitches in a way that lets Kyle knows he feels the shock too, perhaps even stronger than Kyle.

"What? No, of course not, why do you say that?" Kyle says, shaking his head. He runs his thumb over the crease of Stan's hand. His heart is rattling his ribs, trying to get out, and he swallows it down to silence it. It doesn't work. Stan runs his thumb over Kyle's hand in return. The air throbs.

Stan shrugs. "Clyde called me lame today. " he says.

"Oh, well, Stan, Clyde is lame, not you." Kyle scoffs. With his other hand he rubs Stan's side in reassurement.

"Craig agreed with him," Stan continues. He averts his eyes from Kyle's again, instead looking towards the side of his room, at his nightstand. There's a picture of the two of them, Stan and Kyle, sitting on the surface, that Kyle gave Stan for his fourteenth birthday seven months ago. It was the most recent picture of them at the time, taken by Kenny via Kyle's phone just a week prior. They were outside the movie theatre, Stan's arms around Kyle's, their mouths open in mid-laughter. It's a good picture, if not of him personally but them, together, Kyle thinks as he looks at it with Stan.

Kyle shakes himself from his thoughts and returns to the conversation. "Craig's lame too," he says, rolling his eyes. "You know that."

"Maybe they think we're lame," Stan says, softly. He squeezes Kyle's hand and looks him in the eye. Stan's eyes are earnest, like he thinks Craig and his guys thinking him lame is the greatest tragedy of his life, and Kyle dares to touch his face.

"Fuck them," Kyle says, patting Stan on the cheek and withdrawing his hand. Stan nods once, lets go of Kyle's hand, and walks over his desk. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a binder with Français scrawled across it in his handwriting. Kyle is left with an acute ache in his chest, everything in his body telling him to touch Stan again.

"Pouvez-vous m'aider français?" Stan asks. His pronunciation is good, but Kyle knows his grammar and writing to be sloppy. Kyle takes French as well, though at a higher level than Stan. In seventh grade they'd both been in honors classes; in eighth, Kyle is taking advanced credit courses, and Stan put aside academics to focus on football in preparation for high school per his father's request. Kyle finds it totally inane, feels that Stan is doing it in some last-ditch effort to build a solid relationship with his father, but Stan's good and it makes him happy so Kyle deals with it. He hops on the corner of Stan's desk and crosses his ankles. Stan hands him the binder, open to a page full of verbs also written in Stan's choppy letters. "Quiz me."

"To buy," Kyle says, which is the first verb on the list.

"You're asking me in English? Well, fuck. That's hard. This is hard." Stan pushes off the desk with his hands, sending his rolling chair back and swirling. When it stops he grabs the edge of the desk to pull himself back, reclines and looks at Kyle, smiling sheepishly. "Um, acheter."

"That is correct," Kyle says. He picks up a stray pencil and makes a check mark by the verb. There's maybe thirty on the page, covering up every line, their English translations on the opposite side. Doodles cover the page, the intricate flowers, cars and guitars probably belonging to Stan, while the crude breasts and block letter curse words definitely belong to Kenny. Kyle imagines Stan in French class, next to Kenny, passing the notebook back and forth while their teacher reviews grammar. "To dress."

Stan squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand curled around the edge of the desk. "Vêtir," he says, after a pause.

Kyle nods and makes another check. They go through the list four times with Stan still getting things wrong and a fifth time where he gets everything right. Kyle chews on the end of the pencil while he waits for Stan to respond and kicks his feet as he reads the verbs. When they're finished he sets the binder down and places the pencil neatly beside it, then slides off the desk. "You should study closer to bedtime, before you sleep. You retain more information that way," he advises Stan. He goes to his own backpack to get his math homework out. He's in Geometry and they're covering triangles at the moment; Kyle enjoys them. He sits cross-legged on Stan's bed and sets up a little work station, textbook open to the problems in front of him, notebook to the side, calculator in his lap.

Stan sits across from Kyle, also cross-legged, and does his History notes while Kyle calculates angles and sides. "I love this," he says, at one point, and Stan just laughs and reaches out to shake Kyle's knee. They touch each other a lot, and every time they do Kyle feels a little jolt somewhere inside of his midsection that doesn't feel wrong nor bad, but simply strange. He associates the touching and the jolting both with Stan, and has for as long as he's known him. They finish their homework mutually, something that feels important to Kyle, and Stan puts In The Aeroplane Over the Sea on again. He offers a hand to Kyle, and Kyle takes it.

This time they are animated while they dance, swaying and stumbling over each other, laughing. They knock their hips and thighs into the corners of furniture and bruise, Stan's back slams against the wall, Kyle almost falls backward but Stan swings him up. Their steps do not match the songs but they do not care. Kyle throws his arms around Stan's neck at some point and Stan pulls him towards him, slow and unsure, but they press their bodies to each other readily regardless. It feels like coming down from a high, Stan stroking Kyle's back as a song slows down, and in between the music Kyle pulls back just the slightest to look at Stan and finds himself being kissed.

This is not Kyle's first kiss-Kyle's first kiss was seventh grade, justs after his thirteenth birthday, with Bebe during a group ice-skating excursion at Stark's Pond-but it feels like his first, for all the fireworks that ignite in his chest and shoot through his lips don't even move, just stay pressed to each other so hard it becomes painful, but Kyle's toes curl and he reaches up further into the kiss as Stan presses down. Kyle's hands are still around Stan's neck and he grabs hold of his shirt, flannel between his fingers, while Stan's hands are flat on his hips, and this is the best kiss that Kyle has had out of the two that he has had. He had been worried after kissing Bebe, after not liking it at all, and all of that worry had fallen away the second Stan's lips hit Kyle's. They break apart when they can no longer breathe-they'd made it through almost the entirety of a song.

Kyle lets his forehead rest against Stan's lower face, just under his nose. Stan's lips move against his hair. "I've wanted to do that my entire life, I think. Even since before I've known you. I wanted to do that."

"You met me when I was a toddler," Kyle says, but he's smiling.

"Why are we talking? Why aren't we kissing?" Stan leans back to look at Kyle, and he's construed his face into sincere concern. Kyle is concerned, too. Stan's lips are relatively average, a little on the plush side, but they're a lovely pink color and even pinker because of recent actions and Kyle feels his body split in two, open itself up to the feelings that come with being properly kissed, that come with being allowed to feel electric and jolts and touch Stan a lot. He can best describe it as a buzzing.

Kyle laughs and stands on tippy-toes, close to Stan's face. "You started it," he says, and Stan starts something else, too, putting his lips against Kyle's again. They actually move this time, and they do not separate until the sun is gone and snow has started to fall and somehow they're leaning against the headboard on Stan's bed and they're not wearing shoes anymore and they've missed dinner and Stan's mom calls to him that the pizza she's ordered is here. They run downstairs to get the entire box and bring it back upstairs, giddy and giggling and tripping over one another. They both like their pizza with pineapple, though Kyle's half is courteously without ham, and they both taste tangy and sweet as they kiss over the pizza box. They each eat half of the pizza, feeding a slice to each other (which is something they've been doing for as long as they've been eating pizza together) and sharing sloppy marinara sauce kisses. Stan shoves the pizza box off the bed and licks up the crumbs around Kyle's mouth-Kyle doesn't return the favor, finding that to be gross-and holds Kyle's wrists between his fingers as he kisses Kyle dizzy. Food and exertion is making Kyle tired though it's only eight o'clock but he wants to curl into this moment and fall asleep.

"I can't go on," Kyle says with a bit of dramatic flair as he draws his head back from the kiss, wrists still in Stan's hands. "Too tired." He nuzzles his forehead against Stan's face.

Stan moves Kyle's head up with own and nibbles at his jawline. "That's unfortunate," he says, and the vibration of his voice tickles Kyle's face. "'Cause I was the under the assumption we'd do this all night."

"This isn't a one-time thing, so I'm assuming that there will be more time for such activities later," Kyle says, and he breaks free of Stan's hold. He cups Stan's face, lifts his head up to meet his eyes and avoids looking at Stan's lips though he wants to. Something trickles inside him, a dreading feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach. "Right?"

"Right," Stan says, cocking his head. "I love you, dude. I love you so much. You can change your Facebook relationship status if you want." Stan says it like he knows that this is important to Kyle, and it is.

The dread dissipates and Kyle presses quite the chaste kiss upon Stan's lips while holding his face. "Get your laptop," he says as he lets go. "And your pajamas."

Stan opens the curtains on his bedroom window before doing anything else. He normally sleeps with the window open, but not when it snows, and snow is currently falling. He then makes his way to his dresser and takes his shirt off, his skin glowing in the moonlight. Stan and Kyle tend to share pajamas, and tonight is no exception. Stan pulls a pair of black-and-red flannel from his drawer and rolls his jeans down his legs, stepping out of them and replacing them with the bottom to the pajamas. He tosses the top to Kyle, who replaces his current shirt with it. Kyle removes his jeans as well, stripped to a mismatching pair of boxers, though he leaves his socks on. Stan takes his laptop from his desk where it had been charging and settles into the bed beside Kyle, wrapping an arm around him and pulling their shared blanket over their laps, which is something he normally does. Kyle immediately logs onto Facebook and changes his relationship status. He would add that it was with Stan but Stan doesn't have a Facebook, his reasoning being that social media breeds conformity and strongly discourages (almost to the point of disallowing) individualism. It's unnecessary anyway, because within five minutes of scrolling through his newsfeed and laughing at everybody with Stan (Red takes a lot of selfies, Cartman and Wendy regularly get into arguments on the other's shared political links and pictures, Butters is constantly asking for help in those lame Facebook games) Kenny has commented with stan marsh obvs and every single one of Kyle's online friends have liked it. Even his mother. It's cold outside but Kyle feels warm, flushed and light-headed, dizzy from the emotional ups and downs of the night.

They watch a movie and it's Stan's turn to pick but he gives it to Kyle. Kyle selects the third Paranormal Activity because it's the scariest in Kyle's opinion but also because they watched the second the week before that and the first the week before that. Kyle has a masochistic addiction to horror films and jump-scares; Stan is largely unaffected, though his fingers tighten on Kyle's arm and pull him closer and the suspenseful parts. The movie carries them until after midnight. Kyle normally feels unsettled in the quiet of a snowy night after watching a horror film but tonight as Stan shuts the lid of his laptop and puts it on his bedside table before wrapping both arms around Kyle and bringing him down under the blankets, into the empyrean wonderland of Stan's bed, Kyle feels settled and safe.

"I feel really good right now, dude," Stan says. Their noses are touching and Kyle has his eyes closed. Stan's voice cradles him, surrounds his body, and Kyle maneuvers his lips to Stan's, touching them though not quite kissing. It is his way of saying me too and Stan understands it as he envelops Kyle's mouth with his own and they kiss, not too extremely, but enough that Kyle feels satisfied for the night. He rolls over and presses against Stan's back so that he's being spooned and falls asleep.

His sleep is deep and dreamless, as it so often is, until the sound of Stan's parent's fighting jostles them awake a little after two in the morning. Randy and Sharon's raised voices, seemingly of a downstairs origin, and the sound of things being thrown about wake Kyle up, and Stan feels tense around him. Kyle lies there for a moment unsure of what to do and internally cringing. Randy is shouting something about coworkers; Sharon slams her feet as she walks upstairs; something else goes tumbling down, glass smashes, Randy lets out a long growl. Kyle eventually lits Stan's arms off of him and rolls around so that he is facing Stan. Kyle watches Stan's face cycle through a series of emotions—embarrassment, exhaustion, anger—and reaches out to brush Stan's cheekbone with his thumb. Unlike boys like Craig and even Kyle himself, Stan does not have high nor prominent cheekbones, the features of his face laid out on a wholly average map, but Kyle rubs it anyway. Stan seems close to crying and his face is unfolding, desperate.

Stan takes Kyle's hand on his face in his own, not lacing their fingers together but gripping Kyle's with his whole hand. Kyle wiggles closer to Stan and Stan clutches at him with both arms now, Kyle's trapped between their bodies. Stan grabs fistfuls of Kyle's shirt and balls them in his hand, Kyle's back slowly becoming exposed, and Kyle wonders why Stan's holding Kyle so tight when Stan is clearly the one in need of protection. Randy yells something about coworkers over the ruckus of Sharon continuing to throw things down the stairs, apparently increasing in size and weight as the noise grows louder and Stan's grip of Kyle tighter. Stan cringes every time something crashes, lurches at the sound of Sharon's voice, shakes at Randy's. Randy tosses insulting names about and at one point the noise grows physical, the slapping sound of skin on skin, both of them screaming disbelief at the other's willingness to fight. Ten minutes of this pass before Kyle finds a way to Stan's face and presses his lips as hard as he can against Stan's, scrunching his eyes closed, begging Stan to please, please be okay. Stan's arms relax around Kyle as he opens his mouth into the kiss, the passive partner for the first time that night,, and Kyle does his best to bring Stan back. Eventually Stan starts moving his mouth against Kyle's and Kyle himself can relax, moving his arms to a more comfortable position around Stan's neck; Stan lifts his head half heartedly off the pillow so that Kyle can slide his arm between it and his neck, and then rests it on Kyle's forearm.. Kyle tries to block out the sounds of Stan's parents fighting and twitches in response to Stan's every spasm until it starts to make him so sick to his stomach that he presses his hands tight over Stan's ears. The small laughter that Kyle can feel bubble inside of Stan at this gesture makes him feel better.

Stan's parents are on their fourth marriage to each other and Kyle finds himself wondering about Shelly, how she's coping with it without somebody to kiss them through it. Then he thinks about her boyfriend-Larry?-that died, and what he'd do if Stan died. Perhaps it's not the thing one should think of while kissing but then again Kyle is not finding a lot sexual in this kissing, no matter how intense it is, because this is a thing of comfort, he thinks. He gets back into it as he's reminded that Stan is very much here and alive and needing and wanting and Kyle is very much here and alive and needing and wanting also. The fighting does not relent even as they run out of things to throw and break and energy to physically fight and are just screeching empty accusations at each other: sleeping with coworkers, bottles of rum under the bed, not taking good enough care of the kids, look at the example you're setting, you're a bastard, you're a cunt, why did i marry you again, i don't even love you. Time has become a completely abstract concept that they are suspended in, cruel and unkind and without morals as it drags this hellacious event on and on and on. When Stan and Kyle separate from one another the sun is rising, the light beginning to creep into the sky, casting a glow into Stan's room that Kyle can only barely see as Stan's parents falter out. The house settles into the most eerie silence Kyle has ever experienced. There are dried tears on both their faces from Stan's crying and Kyle licks the salt off of Stan's.

"I can't believe that just happened," Stan croaks, barely moving his lips. Kyle's own hurt quite badly. He didn't even know lips could hurt, but they do, vibrating and swollen from overuse.

"Does it happen regularly?" Kyle asks, quiet. He raises his arm above the blanket and puts it on Stan's hip; Stan mirrors the action. They're both on their sides, far apart from each other to see the other boy's face.

Stan sighs, eyelashes fluttering against his skin in a way that lets Kyle know that, yes, it does, perhaps every night, though probably not to this extreme. The provoking incident involved the rum bottles under the bed this time, Kyle learned from this fight. "They think it does us best to stay together," Stan says, moving through the sentence methodically, "but I really think it'd be best if they didn't." His eyes are closed, skin raw, breaking Kyle's heart a little more with every breath.

Kyle doesn't have words for the situation and he's used up all his touching, emotionally exhausted, physically tired and even a little sore. He rolls on his back and puts his arms behind his head, plays with his own hair. Stan's hand moves up underneath Kyle's shirt and to his chest, right over his heartbeat, and he makes little noises of indistinguishable emotion as he slips back into sleep. Kyle's eyes swim and his vision dances in the way that he knows he's close, also, but he fights it for some reason, feels the force of his bed against his back and Stan's hand on his chest, feels his fingers in his hair, feels the functioning of his organs. He's lost himself in the blankets, a mess of limbs and detached body parts and affectionate gestures, but found himself, comfortable and lovely in the tanglement. Early morning light makes Stan's room the oddest color, gives Kyle such a nostalgic feeling that he cannot contain it within himself and it spills around him. He's reminded of their shared childhood, of walks against both sunrise and sunset, of idealized memories he so often brings to the surface. Tonight is a memory now, and he doesn't want it to be, though he appreciates its existence. Tonight he learned what their bodies were for: for each other. He turns to observe Stan, asleep and perfect, and his heart finally bursts under Stan's hand. He had known he wanted this, probably as long as Stan, somewhere inside him, but now it's all coming to him in a rush that he can't handle. His eyelids drop and he knows he's being pulled under. In the limbo between awake and sleep, he hears-of all possible things to come to him in this moment-In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. He's dancing to it with Stan, they're laughing and stumbling and giggling like earlier, and Stan is beautiful, a flower crown resting on his head. Stan is the king of carrot flowers, Kyle decides, as he slides his own hand under his shirt to overlap it with Stan's, as his body gives into the pull of sleep, as all conscious thought and concern leaves him in his most vulnerable state. Stan is the king of carrot flowers. Kyle is full.


	2. The King of Carrot Flowers, Pts. 2-3

It's one o'clock in the morning on a chilly October night when Kyle's phone buzzes and vibrates somewhere to the left of his pillow and wakes him up. The only people he regularly talks to on the phone are his parents and Stan, both of which he knows to be asleep in their respective beds having said goodnight to them hours ago, so he fumbles for his phone under the impression that either somebody has died or there's a telemarketer somewhere pulling really late hours. The screen tells him that it's Stan and worry flares in his chest-the only time Stan calls him this late is when something is wrong, when he needs Kyle. Kyle slides his thumb across the screen and answers the phone, breathing heavy and waiting for Stan's voice.

Stan's voice does not come; there's only breathing, out of sync with Kyle's own. "Stan?" Kyle yawns, his voice stumbling over Stan's name. He stretches out in bed, curling his toes underneath his feet, back arching off the mattress.

"They-divorce-" Stan chokes out. He sounds like he's having an asthma attack and needs an inhaler. Stan does not have asthma; Kyle wonders if you can develop it this late in life. Stan turns fifteen-today. Today is now technically Stan's birthday. October 19th.

"Oh shit," Kyle says, for more than one reason. The hand not holding his phone to his ear curls around his sheets.

Stan breathes on the other side of the end in choppy little breaths, undeveloped waves hitting the shore in the early morning when sharks are hunting and the only people on the beach are heroin addicts with needles in their arms and no hope in their eyes. Kyle is panicking now too, but his panic is manifesting itself in chest pain, a knot inside his sternum that no amount of rubbing will get out and Kyle knows this because Kyle is rubbing hard. Stan and Kyle have a mutual panic attack through their phones at one o'clock in the morning, which dissolves into two o'clock, which becomes three as Kyle's phone rolls out of his hand and he slides into a sleep thirty minutes after Stan had done the same. Kyle had stayed up just to hear Stan breathe, to make sure that he was okay.

Stan is obviously not okay, and Kyle knows this because he wakes up to three texts. randy's taking me to get my permit, reads the first one. The second: thanks for last night. i miss you and the third: i love you so much. Thirty minutes between the first and second; thirty seconds between the second and third. Kyle plugs his phone back in the wall to charge, throws on a pair of basketball shorts and goes downstairs for breakfast, stretching and scratching at his stomach.. His parents and Ike are annoying as usual and he pays them little to no attention, instead thinking about how he will celebrate Stan's birthday, what'll he give him. He thought of-and received advice from Kenny relating to-sexual favors, but that's been a largely awkward and flustering field that he's trying to stay away from at the moment. Besides, it would be a tacky and cheap birthday gift, both things Kyle tries to not be.

Kyle decides to go the grocery store and buy some of those fancy European chocolates that Stan likes so well, along with a blank card decorated with a quaint sailboat and some grow-your-own potted herbs he found while middling around in the produce section. Stan, an earthly fellow, will love grow-your-own potted herbs, Kyle is absolutely sure of it. He expects the cashier to say something like, "Who are these for?" in a singsong, but they do not. He walks home and places a small picture of the two of them (shirtless, in swim trunks, arms around each other, their hair wet and dripping, skin a little pink, at the local pool from last summer, taken by Kenny) in the card along with a calligraphed Happy birthday, Stan taking up the entire inside face of the card. Kyle took calligraphy up out of boredom during Stan's two-week vacation in Montana hunting with Jimbo and Ned (Stan hated it and wrote Kyle long, halfway poetic letters the entire time) and continues to practice it mostly as stress relief. He places the birthday card in the plant's pot and carries it with one hand and the chocolates with the other while walking to Stan's house. He sits on the porch steps and waits for Stan to return.

It's not that long of a wait, actually, maybe fifteen minutes, during which Kyle reads up on celebrity gossip via his phone. He finds himself vaguely offended by the articles, his mind rolling through accusations of classism, fat-shaming, and especially privacy violations as his thumb rolls down the screen. Randy's car pulls up in front of the house and Randy emerges from the passenger seat, eyes a little crazed and shirt half-tucked. Stan walks around from the front of the car, his head cast down and hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, the slump of his back breaking Kyle's heart with every step he takes. Randy notices Kyle and doesn't say anything, instead just walks around the car, gets into the driver's side and drives away. There's an awful screeching sound as Randy takes the corner at full speed without even slowing for the stop sign.

Stan makes it almost to his porch before looking up from the ground and noticing Kyle himself and when he does his face cycles through a myriad of expressions. Eventually he smiles and they embrace, Kyle carefully setting the herbs down on the porch, and separate to look at each other.

"How was it?" Kyle asks. He straightens Stan's collar as he speaks, adjusts his jacket for him. His fingers brush against Stan's warm collarbones and Kyle realizes that he's freezing. Stan pulls him closer, arms around Kyle's back, when he realizes that, too.

Stan shrugs. "Kind of annoying, I guess. The wait was really long. And he's pretending that it's not happening." His voice drops and flattens. Kyle knows that that last sentence is not referring to Stan's permit.

"Why'd he take off like that?" Having finished adjusting his clothes, Kyle steps back from Stan, breaking their embrace. Stan takes a hold of one of Kyle's hand as a reflex, holds it between them. His other hand slides back into his pocket.

Stan shrugs again. His mouth slacks, the skin on his face crumples. Stan, a naturally expressive person, cannot hide his emotions even in the slightest.. "Are those for me?" He asks, gesturing to the potted plant and chocolates on the porch behind him. Stan arches his eyebrows, tilts his head, lips curling upwards.

Kyle turns to look at them. "Yeah," he says, and his face gets hot. He remains turned around until Stan cups his face with the hand not holding his and turns it towards him; they kiss, short and sweet, but it still makes Kyle's knees weak. Stan lets go of Kyle and Kyle stops himself from falling into him.

"Thanks, dude," Stan says, and he goes to retrieve his gifts from the porch. Kyle opens the door for him and follows him inside and then to his bedroom. Stan deposits the chocolates on his desk and pulls his curtains open wide. He places the plant on the windowsill, fussing with the leaves before finding the card. He opens it and Kyle feels embarrassed and exposed, turning his back towards Stan and pretending to be fascinated with a legal pad full of lyrics, poetry and little drawings on Stan's desk. Kyle glances over his shoulder at Stan, giving into his curiosity. Stan takes a second to marvel at the card, then the picture of the two of them. He slips the picture inside the card and sets it down gently on the windowsill before walking over to Kyle, pulling him from the desk and kissing him hard on the mouth, and if Kyle's knees were weak before, they've lost all substance now. Kyle's just starting to get into the kiss, holding a fistful of Stan's shirt and beginning to work one leg between Stan's, when Stan pulls back. "I love it," he says, kissing Kyle on the nose, "and I love you," on the mouth.

Kyle is ready for and fully expects a few hours of making out, but instead Stan sits in his desk chair and eats one of the chocolates, eyes closed and head tilted back. He swings around once and then stops. Kyle becomes more and more confused.

"What's up?" Kyle asks, and he goes to sit on top of Stan's desk, crossing his ankles. He picks up the legal pad. Centered (not neatly, but sloppily) on the front page is a twenty-line poem without stanza breaks or a title; it's fairly typical. Around it Stan has drawn a frame of entwined branches, flower buds, ivy, birds, in black ink, correcting his mistakes by growing them into something new. The next page is similar except this time in place of a frame is a detailed background of the mouth of a forest and instead of a poem it's a song with a title. Winter.

"I'm getting older," Stan says. He's eating the chocolates one-by-one in single bites and looking at Kyle looking at his legal pad. He's beaming, face cracked in a glasgow smile.

Kyle is steadily becoming more unnerved. He sets down the legal pad and looks at Stan, frowning. "Not this shit again," he says, curling his fingers around the ledge of the desk. Flashbacks of alcoholism and the worst days of Kyle's life are hitting him fullforce, racking his body, shoulders rolling inward from the strain.

"No, no, of course not," Stan says. "I'm ready for it this time. I'm gonna-I'm gonna fucking embrace it, dude." He places a piece of chocolate on his outstretched tongue for punctuation. Kyle's concern blossoms into frustration and he slides off the desk, sitting on Stan's bed instead. It's unmade, twisted sheets evident of a poor night's sleep.

"I'm worried about you," Kyle says the words slowly, enunciating every syllable with precision. He watches Stan's smile wilt, motions slow, until they come to a stop. "You're acting weird."

Stan picks himself up from his desk and sits beside Kyle. He pools his hands in his laps and looks down. His hair is a perpetual state of getting long, shaggy around his ears, bangs skimming the top of his eyes when he has his head down. His ears are hidden; Kyle brushes his hair back to look at them, small and pale seashells.

Stan doesn't say anything. He doesn't cry and he doesn't move. He sits on the edge of his bed, legs strung over the side, limbs still. Kyle combs through his hair with his fingers and adjusts it soundlessly, then tilts Stan's head up with an index finger beneath his chin. Stan's face is blank, catatonic even. Stan radiates with familiar feelings: despair, hopelessness, listlessness. Sometimes Kyle is bitter and wishes they would just put Stan on antidepressants, but Stan's parents are in constant disagreement over that like everything else with Randy insisting that depression is something for women and fags to dramatize. Kyle runs his fingers over the outline of Stan's face and though he can feel the heat working beneath Stan's skin he thinks of Stan more like stone, something with nothing but more of itself on the inside. Kyle lays down slowly, folding his hands over his stomach and looking at the ceiling. He closes his eyes. A minute later Stan is in the same position beside him.

"We have to meet up with Kenny, Bebe, Cartman and Wendy in four hours," Kyle says. He turns his head to look at Stan, to observe his face for any reaction to his reminder. There is no reaction.

"I know," Stan says in a perfect monotone. Kyle sighs as quietly as he can.

"Look," he says, and he finds it within himself to fasten his voice into something commanding and strong, "I understand. They won't. We made these plans a month ago, Stan. Can you-can you just try? For me?" Kyle's strong and commanding voice devolves into a pathetically high-pitched plea.

It's Stan's turn to sigh, something deep that sounds like it came from his bones, from his very being. Kyle knows him well enough to know that he's not mad, not at Kyle, at least. Mad at the universe, at the timing, at God, maybe, but not mad at Kyle. "I'll try," Stan says after what feels like minutes of suspended suffering. Nothing in Kyle feels relieved.

They go downstairs and watch horrible B-list horror movies and it coaxes Stan into something resembling happiness as they mock the characters and production, occasionally muting the sound to improvise dialogue. Stan's mother provides them with an absolutely ridiculous selection of delicious, fattening snacks then disappears upstairs. Stan tenses and zones out for ten minutes but then he's back, stuffing a cookie between his lips and whooping when somebody in the movie dies in an inane way. Kyle looks at him and not the screen, smiling, and slides a mini donut between his lips.

As promised they depart for the bowling alley in three and a half hours, walking hand-in-hand through the town. It's warmed up since the morning and Kyle is not quite as cold. The sun is high and mocking them with false promises of heat; Kyle mentions this to Stan and gets a laugh out of him. They had, indeed, made plans with the two other couples they knew a month ago, born out of Wendy's urging for togetherness and camaraderie. Cartman and Wendy have been together since they were thirteen and take the title of the most obnoxious couple in South Park. They're big on public displays of affection and way too into each other, whether they're at each other's throats or mouths, and one of Kyle's favorite topics to bitch about. Stan, friends with them both, acts as a sponge to Kyle's bitching, absorbing it and offering nothing in return. Kenny and Bebe have been together for two months and towards this Kyle is apathetic.

The bowling alley is a recent addition towards the edge of South Park, taking the place of the Blockbuster building that had been closed for years, and is one of the few sources of entertainment in their culturally deprived town. It's become a frequent haunt for the citizens, bustling on Saturday mid afternoons such as this one. Stan holds the door for Kyle and Kyle pretends to complain at this despite the fact that Stan has been holding doors open for everybody (but especially Kyle) for years. They're supposed to wait in the lobby for the others then pool funds for a lane but nobody else is there yet; Kyle checks his phone and tuts at his and Stan's punctuality and the others' associated tardiness. They crumple against the wall and sit huddled together with knees to their chest, passing the time by talking to each other, comparing their school experiences from the last week. Kyle takes the AP and Honors classes offered to freshman at Park County High School; Stan takes average classes, pulls average grades, and is on the Junior Varsity football team. They have a different lunch hour and so far that has been the biggest tragedy of Kyle's freshman year, followed closely by his unjust B on an English paper that temporarily jeopardized his grade for the semester.

Kenny and Bebe arrive after fifteen minutes, Bebe wearing Kenny's jacket and as a result of this Kenny looking cold and fragile in a plain white shirt. Kenny is tall and lanky, a victim of a never ending growth spurt; Bebe is short and the curviest girl (and not in the way that overweight women claim to be curvy, but in a genuinely vivacious manner) in their year. The contrast makes them a visually interesting couple and this is only heightened by the way Kenny's jacket sags around her shoulders. Kyle always feels a flare of embarrassment at seeing Bebe, as she was his first kiss and now he's dating a boy and she's dating a good friend. He's also envious of her hair as it is of a thick, curly consistency similar to his own, but she manages and wears it so much better, well-kept curls falling over her shoulders. Kyle's eyes narrow.

Stan and Kyle don't bother standing up as Kenny and Bebe sit beside them. Kenny puts an arm around Bebe and turns towards Stan. "Happy birthday," Kenny says. He digs into the pocket of his jeans and produces a cigarette carton, then hands it to Stan. Stan looks at it and then at Kenny. "It's not actually cigarettes," Kenny explains. "That was just the best-sized box I had laying around. Open it."

Stan does as instructed; inside is an assortment of small, wallet-sized pictures. Stan withdraws one and sees that it's of him and Kyle. Kyle remembers the moment but the picture is candid, unprompted; Kyle's yelling at an out-of-view Cartman, head turned to the side, and Stan is engaged in conversation with somebody-Clyde, if Kyle remembers correctly-with his head also turned to the side, but in the center of the picture they're holding hands. Stan smiles a little and puts the picture back, then takes another one. This one was prompted, from Kyle's bar mitzvah. It's Kyle reading from the Torah, the angle highlighting his profile, dull lighting flattering to his features. His hands are clamped around the podium, mouth open over the beginning of a word. The next one Kyle can't identify; it's of him and Stan kissing, their interlocked faces filling the entire frame, their eyes closed. Stan puts that one back after running his thumb over the edges then shuts the box and puts it in his pocket. "Perfect," he says to Kenny, and they share a smile.

"I thought you'd like it," Kenny says. "Wait 'till you see the batch for Christmas. There's some really good ones in that."

"I'm sure," Stan says. He stretches his legs out in front of him and raises his arms, extending his spine. Kyle keeps his knees to his chest.

"Are you going to get your permit?" Bebe asks, leaning forward so she can look at everybody sufficiently. Kyle eyes the way her hair falls ever so gracefully from her face. She's chewing gum and blowing bubbles periodically and Kyle finds himself minutely annoyed.

"Already did," Stan says. He takes his wallet from his pocket and displays his permit. Kyle realizes that he forgot to ask to see it. Stan looks handsome in his picture, even if his smile is fake and his hair is weirdly long. Bebe nods at it appreciatively, blowing another bubble. Kenny pops it with a finger; Bebe rolls her eyes at him and does a bad job at suppressing a smile.

Cartman and Wendy show up a few moments later. Cartman holds the door open for Wendy and Wendy complains for real unlike Kyle, insisting that she can hold her own door open, goddammit, she doesn't need his false chivalry. Cartman insists that it's not false and that sometimes she needs to shut up and realize that everything he does is not a personal insult to her sovereignty as a woman. They continue their argument as they stand in front of Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Bebe; Kenny clears his throat.

"Oh, sorry," Wendy says, flushing; whether it's from the temperature, embarrassment, or Cartman-induced adrenaline, Kyle will never know, but he supposes it's a mixtire of all three. "Hello, all," she says, making eye contact with them individually. She lingers at Stan's and says, "Happy birthday."

Stan nods in gratitude and those sitting collectively stand up. Cartman hands Stan a card; Stan opens it to find a joint gift of twenty bucks from Cartman and Wendy inside, signed with their names in Wendy's script. Stan voices his thanks this time. Kyle thinks it's tacky to give a joint gift at the ripe age of fifteen but doesn't say anything; he'll tell Stan that later. The group walks towards the counter, retrieving money from wallets, pockets and purses as they go. The cost totals around $40 plus sales tax for two hours, which split between five and half people (when it comes to financial matters, Kyle can't count Kenny as a whole person) isn't that daunting. Stan pays for Kyle's to Kyle's meaningless protests; Wendy insists she pay for herself and wins that argument out of Cartman's greed; Kenny can't even begin to offer to pay for Bebe and only provides half of his share. They collect their shoes and head to their assigned lane; it's towards the back and, thankfully, nestled between two empty lanes.

The place is busy, hard sounds of balls on the waxed wood of the lanes and against the pins knocking against Kyle's ears, bad music playing loudly from someplace overhead, people screeching with laughter and conversation. In front of the lane is a table surrounded by a circular couch big enough to fit ten people. The group arranges themselves and exchanges their shoes without conversation, then disperse to find suitable bowling balls. Kyle struggles with an eight-pound one; Stan handles a ten-pounder with ease. They return to the couch to find Bebe and Kenny each holding eight-pound bowling balls ("My strategy is speed," Kenny explains), Wendy with one that weighs ten pounds, and Cartman struggling with a fourteen-pound behemoth. Wendy logs their names into the computer system, televisions overhead announcing their turns and scores, and registers them in alphabetical order: Bebe, Cartman, Kenny, Kyle, Stan, Wendy. Kyle is content with his placement and relaxes on the couch.

"Kill 'em," Kenny says to Bebe as she walks towards the kane, leaning forward and slapping her on the thigh.

"Oh, I will," she says. She does not kill it, but knocks down five pins on her first try (Kenny hollers and roars anyway) and ends up in the gutter the second. She turns around and shrugs, blowing another bubble. Kenny puts his arm around her, pulling her into him, and tells her how to fix the mistake she made on her next turn.

"I'll fuckin' kill it," Cartman says, and though he struggles to even lift his ball he somehow manages to roll a strike, the pins falling immediately. He doesn't watch his ball travel but stands with his back turned, ears perked. Without turning his head he nods at the sound of his strike.

"You rigged it," Kyle accuses, voice flat, claiming this almost out of obligation. Stan pats Kyle's knee.

"No, Kyle, I just have skill." Cartman struts back to the couch and flops down beside Wendy, crossing one leg over the other's knee, putting both arms on the couch behind him and gripping the low-quality faux-leather upholstery. "When are we getting pizza?" He flicks his head and moves his bangs out of his eyes. He's red in the face from activity already.

"We aren't," Kyle says as Kenny stands. Bebe tells him to fucking slay it and slaps him on the ass; it's mildly amusing and the group shares a laugh. "But your fatass can if you want it," Kyle adds afterwards, returning his face to a blank expression. Cartman is indeed still fat but nowhere near obese, a recent spike in height in his favor. Kyle is certain that his deplorable eating habits and inactive lifestyle will catch up with him eventually. Cartman makes an obscene gesture; Kyle rolls his eyes and turns his head to watch Kenny instead.

Kenny assumes an exaggerated bowler's stance and throws, his ball traveling down the lane at a ludicrous speed. The monitor says eighteen miles per hour. The ball hits the center pin directly and scatters the rest, an impressive and loud strike. He jumps when this happens and walks backward towards the couch, falling beside and kissing Bebe hard. When they separate he appears to be chewing her gum; he blows a bubble. Kenny occupies the space of the couch in almost a fluid manner, limbs soft and relaxed.

"Congratulations, Kenny," Stan says. He hasn't removed his hand from Kyle's knee, where he's been aimlessly tracing patterns. "And Cartman too, I guess."

"Damn straight," Cartman says. He folds his arms over his chest and nods.

Kyle's ball steers itself into the gutter both times he rolls it. He curses at the lane, at the ball, at the pins, at the television and at God before returning to sit beside Stan, crossing both his legs and his arms. "This is ridiculous," he says through gritted teeth.

"Aww, Kyle is pouting," Cartman says, talking as if to a small, petulant child. "Look at his little pout." He sticks his bottom lip out and draws his eyebrows up into an exaggerated mocking of Kyle's visage.

"Am not," Kyle says, and tightens the crossing of his arms. His face feels warm and frustration sits acidic in his stomach.

Stan laughs a little and rustles Kyle's hair; his fingers against Kyle's scalp immediately begins to relax Kyle, but he's not going to let that show. "You kind of are," Stan says. He leans in closer to Kyle's ear and whispers, "But it's sort of cute." Kyle smiles in spite of himself and finally relaxes his limbs. Stan gets up and bowls a strike, but it's a quiet, subtle sort of strike, not nearly as improbable and absurd as Cartman's or impressive and showy as Kenny's. Everybody except Cartman applauds Stan, who turns around and bows for them before sitting.

Wendy gets a spare, knocking out seven on her first go and then the remaining three. "My bitch beat yours," Cartman says to Kenny and Stan. Wendy doesn't chastise him as she nestles into his side; their combined smugness makes Kyle roll his eyes and suck on his teeth.

"Cartman, it's bowling," Kenny says, slowly and patiently with hand gestures to aid him, "who the fuck cares?"

"I have to agree," Stan says. He has a hand on the back of Kyle's neck, tracing patterns again.

"Whatever, you guys are just mad because the Cartman-Testaburger team is clearly winning," Cartman says. He gets up and stretches, filling space with himself. His shirt rides up; Kyle swallows bile at the site of his stomach."I'm going to get some pizza." Cartman twists his body around, still stretching.

"It's almost your turn," Kyle says. His patience is wearing thin and he'd be happy for Cartman's momentary disappearance, but he doesn't want the game to lag, either.

"So?" Cartman finishes his stretching with a flourish, cracking his neck. He looks at Wendy, extending a hand. "Wendy, you coming with?"

"Okay," Wendy says. She gets her purse from the table and stands up beside Cartman, taking his hand. "I can wait while you come back for your turn." She looks at the other with apology in her eyes but Kyle thinks it to be, somehow, false.

"That's a good plan," Bebe says as she comes back from bowling, where she had rolled a seven. Kenny hollers and roars again, congratulating her for her victory with another kiss. When she retreats from the kiss she looks at Wendy for a response, the gum back in her mouth.

"Thank you, Bebe," Wendy says with a curt nod of the head, and she and Cartman are gone.

"How rude," Kyle says, glaring at their backs as they walk away and become smaller and smaller before turning a corner and disappearing completely. They walked close, bumping into each other, and Kyle wonders how two people can be so absorbed in one another. "It's his fucking turn."

Kenny shrugs. "I don't have plans after this," he says, "so I don't really care." Bebe nods in agreement; Stan follows the statement with a single "Yeah."

"Still," Kyle says, and he crosses his arms again, sighing and jiggling his foot. He doesn't know why he agreed to today's plans. Couples bowling could perhaps be tolerable without the Cartman-Testaburger team, but out of Kyle's circle of friends there are only three couples, the couples gathered here today. He expects that as they grow older more couples will crop up but for now in their age group it's just them, some sort of unwritten dogma forcing them to interact with each other because of their current common experiences as well as the old quartet of Cartman, Kyle, Kenny and Stan, who haven't grown apart even with their relationships. Kyle can't decide if he hates this or is grateful for the familiarity, and Kyle can extend this to all of South Park's nuances and sentimentalities. Still, couples bowling is not leaving the best impression on him and he's seriously despising Wendy for it.

The gamepasses by as Kyle expects it to: Cartman gloats over his and Wendy's shared winning score with Cartman in first place and Wendy in second, Wendy exhibits her own pride in subtle ways, Kenny and Bebe are tolerable but loud and Stan is quieter than usual but an impressive bowler. Kyle and Bebe finds themselves tied for last at the seventh round with Stan in third and Kenny in fourth. Bebe is set to bowl as a family of four fills the lane beside them, and the way Stan tenses fills Kyle with trepidation. He places a hand on Stan's knee. The family consists of a man and woman and their two children, a girl who looks about three years older than her younger brother, and like most families engaged in fun and wholesome family activities in the public they look happy as can be. Kyle can feel Stan constrict beneath the hand he has on Stan's knee, and he himself constricts in response to this.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom," Stan announces to nobody in particular. Kyle immediately follows that with "Me, too," and rises with Stan, holding his hand. Cartman makes the obligatory buttfuck joke through a mouthful of pizza (which he had been eating the entirety of slowly throughout the game) that Kenny makes the obligatory laugh towards. Kyle rolls his eyes and squeezes his fingers around Stan's.

Stan leads Kyle towards the bathroom and walks to the sink, looking at his image in the mirror. He splashes water on his face and Kyle puts a hand on his shoulder, frowning at their reflections. Stan's face is slack and it worries Kyle; he doesn't want him to slip, not here and not now, out of concern for Stan and out of worry for the others. The others don't understand. Not like Kyle understands. He rubs his hand against the width of Stan's back. Stan has broad, strong shoulders, perfect for playing football and perfect for Kyle to rub. Kyle wonders if the consistency of Stan's sturdiness will ever stop breaking his heart.

"I'm not going to tell you it's okay because it's not," Kyle says, and he rests his forehead against Stan's shoulder along with his hand. "But I'm here for you." He closes his eyes and breathes deep. He wants to put his head against Stan's chest and hear his heartbeat, feel his breath, reassure himself that Stan is alive and functioning at at least the most primal level. Stan does not respond to Kyle, but he does grant Kyle's wordless wish, turning around so he can hold Kyle in his arms, Stan's back pressed into the sink. Stan puts his chin on the top of Kyle's head and Kyle visualizes the insides of Stan's body working to keep him alive: his heart pumping and veins carrying blood, lungs inflating and deflating, brain alight with neurons. Stan is consistent in his sturdiness; he is a pristine image of a healthy youth.

After a few minutes Kyle raises his head, thus moving Stan's, and looks at him like he wants to be kissed. Again Stan grants Kyle's wordless wish. Their mouths meet and something sparks inside of Kyle, stronger than usual, every fiber of his being stretching into the simple connection. They have their hands around each other's faces, holding tight. Kyle holds Stan to keep him grounded and hopes that Stan does feel grounded with Kyle's hold. Kyle doesn't know what Stan's holding him for, and maybe one day he'll ask, but for now he's moving his lips against Stan's, overcome with sensation and gratefulness, understanding and want. He licks his way into Stan's mouth and runs his tongue against his teeth-Stan has such small teeth for somebody of his size, yet a dental blessing in their natural straightness and whiteness, as perfect as the rest of him-while working a leg between Stan's. He's trying to get as close as possible, trying to connect every respective nerve together.

Kenny comes to get them after twenty minutes; Kyle's eyes are closed but he hears the subtle snap of Kenny's camera. For such a small noise it separates Stan and Kyle with force; they remove themselves from each other's bodies but stay close together, side firmly into side. The corners of Kenny's lip are quirked just a few degrees upwards and his eyes are gleaming but he's not smiling. He puts the camera back into the pocket of his jeans.

"Cartman's getting, uh, impatient," Kenny says. He holds the bathroom door open for them.

"I'm sure he is," Kyle says. He scowls; Stan laughs, and Kyle recognizes the sound as appreciation, like Stan's saying Thank you for being you, but Kyle's scowl deepens for appearances.

"So it'd be nice of you to stop fucking in the bathroom." Kenny leans against the door and gestures for them to leave, rolling his hand in the air and bowing. Like so much else in their social interactions, Kenny makes the joke out of obligation. Kyle is reminded of the dogma, of the unwillingness to break precedent and remain in their predesigned roles. It's a small mountain town; anything else would shock the citizens and themselves as an extension. Kyle knows Kenny knows. Kenny knows Kyle knows Kenny knows. Stan knows it all too. Stan and Kyle exit the bathroom and return to bowling.


	3. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

The fourth divorce appeared to be the final divorce. Kyle came to this conclusion after six months, as the date had broken the previous record of five months and twenty-nine days without reconciliation between Randy and Sharon. Sharon won custody of the house and the kids in court; Randy relocated a few towns over and after seven months exhausted what felt like like the tri -state area's resource of single women aged twenty to forty-five, eventually settling down with the opposite of Sharon, a leggy long-haired blonde named Ally who spoke only when spoken to. Sharon remains single even after a year, living a quiet life and spending most of her nights curled up with a bottle of vodka, though she plays the part of devoted mother in the daytime. It pains Kyle to watch her interact with her children, especially Stan. The house is always quiet, delicate and Kyle feels less like he's walking on carpet and more like he's walking on eggshells upon entrance.

Randy exerts his fatherly presence via obnoxious gifts, having gotten a well-paying gig as a researcher for a prominent oil company. He's the type of scientist that denies global warming, answers no when asked in national surveys whether it exists and publishes flimsy studies to support his boss's environmentally harmful endeavors. Stan talks frequently about how this caused him to lose what shreds of respect he had left for his father and Kyle agrees, even though Kyle had no respect for the man from the time he met him and thinks that this is exactly the type of thing Randy would do. Regardless, the influx of cash meant an influx of nice things for Shelley and Stan. Randy paid for laser eye surgery and Invisilines, transforming Shelley into a practical clone of Sharon, and sent her off to an expensive liberal arts school in New England, while Stan has a box of high-end sneakers and signed jerseys hiding in the basement. Kyle has watched Stan open the latest box from Randy and pull out his newest present; Kyle has watched Stan turn white and then green, face blank and voice low as he walked down the basement steps and deposited whatever it was into the Randy box. The first time Kyle came at Stan's hand followed one of these occurrences, Kyle's back against the basement wall as Stan's hands slid into his boxers. The wall was cold, Stan's hands warm, the contrast sending shivers through his entire body. Kyle saw stars; Stan cried.

The pinnacle of Randy's presents is something that Stan can't deny he likes, can't deny he wants. Randy had gone out of state to buy it, had driven it to Sharon's house and now he knocks on the door himself. Kyle is there, his legs folded underneath him on the couch as he sips from Sharon's homemade hot chocolate and watches the second season of Star Trek with Stan's arm around him. It's a lazy Saturday morning following a sleepover and Kyle is wearing one of Stan's shirts, his hair wild and uncombed. The knocking prompts Stan's attention and he throws his head over his shoulder, announcing to his mother, reading the newspaper in the kitchen, that he'll get it. Kyle watches Stan walk to the door, open the door, and then Kyle watches Stan stop. His arms drop; his body stills; Kyle can't see his face and he doesn't want to. Dread drops in his stomach hard and fast.

"Well, son," Randy says, and he hugs Stan. Stan, sixten as of today, October 19th, is taller than Randy by maybe an inch and a half. Otherwise Stan favors Randy in coloring and that earnest blue-collar brand of handsomeness. From what Kyle can see Randy looks the same except in a nicer state of dress, wearing symbols of his new wealth. Stan does not reciprocate the hug; Randy pulls back and smiles, the genuinity of it making Kyle spit his hot chocolate back into his mug. The sweetness feels suffocating in a scene so jarring."You're sixteen today. Almost a man. I got you something." Randy walks out of the doorway and motions for Stan to follow. Stan takes slow, methodical steps. Kyle puts his hot chocolate down on the coffee table and positions himself so he can watch from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and lips pursed.

It's an uncomfortably amazing car. It's the type of car Kyle dreamed of Stan having, the type of car every young person imagines cruising in as a teenager. It's perfect, both as a specimen and for Stan himself, like its only purpose in its automobile life is to be the perfect first car for this particular boy. It's painted a light blue that shines in contrast to the surrounding bleak landscape, top rolled down and exposing a well-kept interior. Kyle knows that he would be able to see his reflection in the chrome assets. It has to be at least fifty years old but looks brand new, long, rectangular and beautiful, Kyle's lips part. He can't believe Randy did this and can't believe he's dating a boy with a car this nice, feeling both nauseated by the display of heavy-handed grandiosity and like a typical popular white girl from the sixties in love with a rich rebel and his glorious car. He's unable to take his eyes off of it, afraid if he looks away it'll disappear and leave despair in its place. Stan comes into Kyle's line of vision, running his hand down the side, his head cast down and face hidden.

"It's a '57 Chevrolet Blue Air Convertible," Randy says. He's standing off to the side, hands on his hips. The smugness in his voice snaps Kyle back and nausea becomes his primary feeling. "I saw the ad and I thought, this is just for my Stanley. I wish I had such a car as cool as this when I was your age. Would've made getting girls a lot easier. Not that you're chasing girls, but-"

"This is-mine?" Stan says. He looks at Randy and finally Kyle can see his face-his eyes are wide, the corners of his lips drawn up, he's happy. He's accepting the gift. Kyle can't blame him.

Randy nods and hands Stan the keys as one of Stan's hands rests on the tip of the right fin. Stan holds them in both of his hands and stares. Randy nods again, clears his throat, and stutters through the beginning of several different sentences before turning around and walking off, hands thrust deep into the pocket of his windbreaker. Kyle watches Randy move down the street until he turns a corner and disappears and then Kyle heads towards Stan, looking at the keys he has cradled in his palms.

"I can't believe it," Stan says. "I just can't fucking believe it. What the hell?" He makes eye contact with Kyle, his face contorted in a sincere and befuddled expression, and then directs his gaze back at the keys. He runs a thumb over the ridges.

Kyle shakes his head and puts a hand on Stan's shoulder, huddling in close. They stand there and look at the keys in Stan's hands without words (for there are no words to convey the confusion and awe and no explanations that could make sense of Randy's actions) until Sharon begins shouting from inside the house that they shouldn't leave the door open when it's so cold, what on earth is going on out here, boys, and then her shouting stops in the middle of a sentence. Kyle turns to see her in the doorway, having the most intense reaction to the car as of yet, her mouth wide open and head jutted forward. It's cartoonish, almost comical. She looks at Stan and says in barely more than a whisper, "Randy?" to which Stan nods and dangles the keys in his hand at her. Sharon shakes her head and throws her arms up, turning around and disappearing into the house.

Stan finally slides the keys into the pocket of his jeans, gives the car one more once-over with his eyes, grabs Kyle's hand and leads him into the house. They shut the door and lock it and then Stan falls to the floor with his back against the front door. Kyle hurries to sit beside him and brushes Stan's hair from his eyes behind his ears, taking one of Stan's hands in both of his, and waits. Anger bubbles inside of Kyle-Stan had been doing so well lately, no longer falling into catatonic states after one of Randy's gifts showed up in the mail, talking more openly about his growing hatred for his father, and Kyle had been so proud of him, of his boy. He doesn't want to see Stan regress, doesn't want Stan to be unhappy. Kyle puts his lips against Stan's in the most tender fashion he can, then licks his way inside of Stan's mouth, and keeps their mouths connected for as long as he possibly can. Please don't, he tries to communicate. Please. For me.

Stan turns his head away after a few minutes and Kyle leans back. "Just-wow," Stan says, and then he picks himself up from the floor and proffers a hand to Kyle to help him. Kyle stands as well and they hold hands as they walk into the kitchen, finding Sharon with her head in her hands and fingers knotted in her hair, sitting and staring at the kitchen table. She pulls her head up at the noise of them entering and attempts to shoot them a smile; she has deep crow's feet but sweet brown eyes, so matronly Kyle's heart leaps into his throat. He hates to feel uncomfortable around Stan's family but he so often does.

"I can't believe it," Sharon says. She shakes her head a little and continues to smile, then takes a sip from a steaming mug of what Kyle guesses to be tea. She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, smiling all the while, and shakes her head again.

"Me neither, Mom," Stan says, and he breaks his hand free from Kyle's to sit in a chair opposite his mother and take one of her hands in his. Kyle floats behind Stan and puts his own hands on the back of his chair, looking off to the side and out the window. He can't see Stan's new car from here but he can feel its presence outside and in the room itself.

"You don't even have your license yet," Sharon's saying. Kyle looks at her and then immediately rips his gaze away-her eyes are so sad.

"I'm getting it soon," Stan says. "The appointment is next week." He pats his mother's hand and then withdraws his, resting both of his in his lap. Sharon watches him do this, her expression empty.

"I know, I made it," Sharon says. She sighs. Kyle continues to look out the window. It looks like it might snow later and Kyle wonders if he wants it to before deciding he's apathetic to the idea.

"You know, I really like it," Stan says. "Dad's trying to buy my love back and it's not working, but it's a really sweet car."

He's enthusiastic, genuine as far as Kyle can tell, and that's good enough for both Kyle and, presumably, Sharon, as she makes a noise of defeat and stands up, walking over to the refrigerator. "Whatever," she says, and Kyle dips his hands down to rub Stan's shoulders. Stan nuzzles Kyle's arm in response. "Do you boys want lunch?" Sharon asks, and Stan says that they do. "It'll be ready in half an hour," Sharon says as she pulls something from the refrigerator. The finality of the tone of her voice pushes Stan and Kyle to go upstairs.

Stan sits on his bed and Kyle sits beside him. Kyle puts his head on Stan's shoulder, the desire to be close to him a little bit stronger than usual. Stan grabs his phone from the bedside table and texts Kenny; Kyle reads the forming words as Stan moves his thumbs, a notoriously slow and horrible texter. guess what randy got me for my birthday. Stan sets the phone back on the bedside table-Kenny tends to respond to texts either right away or after three hours, and the window for right away has collapsed-and then nudges Kyle, coaxing him off his shoulder and covering Kyle's mouth with his own. Kyle's starting to get into it, fingers drumming along the waistband of Stan's jeans and back arched so their chests are pressing together though there's inches of tantalizing distance between them, when his phone buzzes. Kyle sighs as he separates from Stan.

The text reads, Do i really have to guess?

no he got me a 57 chevy bel air. see and Stan finds the closest picture approximation to his new vehicle via Google Images and attaches it to the text. Kyle rubs at the small of Stan's back and feels Stan tense and then relax again.

Wow that is actually a really nondick thing for him to do. I'm with cartman. He wants to meet up and talk about your 'sweet new ride'. I think hes jealous. Kyle groans. "I hate it when Kenny and Cartman hang out," he says, taking his hand from Stan's back and readjusting his hair. They're obviously going to meet up with Kenny and Cartman, out of tried and true obligation if nothing else.

"Why?" Stan composes another text, pockets his phone and gets off the bed, pulling on the beat-up boots that are leaning against a wall. Taking this as a cue to get ready to go out himself, Kyle exchanges Stan's shirt for the one he was wearing yesterday and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to get it to cooperate. Kyle keeps it short but he needs a haircut and it's frizzing in the awkward October weather. He checks his reflection in the mirror that hangs above Stan's dresser and groans, tugging at a resistant curl.

Kyle shrugs at Stan's question. "I think Cartman is a bad influence on Kenny," he says as he buttons his blazer over his shirt, all the while watching himself in the mirror. Stan stands behind him, his hands hovering around Kyle's hips, low enough not to interfere with Kyle dressing himself but still touching Kyle in some way. Stan doesn't respond to Kyle's statement but meets his eyes in the mirror; Kyle smiles. He's never been as happy, as complete, as he is when he's doing domestic shit with Stan. In place of his usual set of exasperated and frustrated emotions he is calm and feels adult, almost, and sort of like he's figured out a big secret.

Stan places his lips on Kyle's neck and he's sad to remove himself from Stan but he must. Kyle slips his feet into the canvas shoes waiting for him at the foot of the bed. Stan and Kyle exit Stan's room, walking close enough to each other that their shoulders bump. They have days like this, days where their sustenance becomes each other's touch, more often than not. They always have, for as long as Kyle can remember. They stop in the kitchen to eat what Sharon has prepared for them: huge sandwiches stuffed with a myriad of (Kosher) meats and vegetables on thick, bakery bread with homemade potato chips on the side. Sharon herself is no longer in the kitchen but the plates are on the table, tall glasses of sparkling apple juice beside them. Stan and Kyle exchange a look and then sit down. Kyle eats the potato chips first; Stan, the sandwich.

"She's not happy about the car," Stan says, setting his sandwich down and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He drinks his juice and Kyle watches his Adam's apple bob.

"I can tell," Kyle says. He places a hand on Stan's, resting on the table as Stan plucks potato chips.

When they're done they leave the plates and glasses on the table, Stan insisting that it's better for his mother to get mad at him for not picking up after himself than for her to wallow in negative emotions related to Randy, and leave the house. Stan calls Kenny and tells Kyle that they're to meet at the halfway mark between Stan and Kenny's houses, a small park that's really nothing more than a few benches and a swing set. Stan and Kyle get there before Kenny and Cartman and sit themselves on the swing set, Kyle drawing patterns in the mulch below with the toe of his shoe, Stan wrapping the chains around each other and spinning.

Kenny appears out of nowhere and pushes Kyle off the ground. Kyle tightens his hands around the chains out of instinct but can't prevent his lower half from lurching forward, sliding out of the swing as he reaches the peak of his height. His feet hit the ground and drag as he comes down and it hurts. He isn't sure where it hurts but pain blossoms inside of him somewhere.

"Goddammit Kenny," he curses, untangling himself from the swing. Stan is there to catch him as he falls, dizzy and blinded from anger. Cartman's busting his lungs laughing somewhere to Kyle's right. He crosses his arms and rips himself from Stan's gentle hold, sirens of embarrassment flaring in his head.

"That was awesome," Cartman says. Kyle's vision unblocks himself in time to see Cartman slapping Kenny on the back. Kenny shrugs at Kyle and offers a sympathetic look; Kyle flips him off and chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Sorry," Kenny says. He shrugs and puts his palms up in an apologetic manner."I just saw you there and I couldn't resist."

"Yeah, that'll hold up in court," Kyle mutters, but his rage is fading. He stretches and identifies the source of pain as the balls of his feet and palms of his hands, presumably from the skidding and the chains respectively. He adjusts his clothes and sighs. He lets Stan put an arm around his waist and pull him into his side.

"Fags," Cartman coughs into his hand. Kyle wrinkles his nose at him. "C'mon, I wanna see that car," Cartman says, and he's walking in the direction of Stan's house before the group can assent or dissent. Kyle rolls his eyes but bites his tongue. Stan steers them from the park and back towards his house, Kenny falling in step. Kenny mirrors Stan, putting an arm around Kyle's waist. Kyle isn't sure if he's mocking them, jealous of their affection or looking to get in on it and Kyle doesn't really care because it's Kenny and Kenny is oftentimes an unexplainable, but benevolent, force.

Stan makes a strangled little noise in his throat when he sees Cartman leaning against the passenger door of Stan's new car, one of his feet propped up on the flawless exterior. Kyle removes himself from both Stan and Kenny's hold, not wanting to draw unwanted negativity from Cartman and also preparing himself to yell at him. The soles of his shoes, caked with dirt from being outside, are pressed into the clearest car Kyle has ever laid eyes on, and that warrants yelling.

"Get your feet off of Stan's car, fatass," Kyle shouts as they come into earshot. Cartman smiles and hops over the side of the car, now sitting in the passenger's seat.

"Dude, get out of my car," Stan says, less loud and assertive than Kyle. Stan, Kyle and Kenny are now standing in front of the car, all of their eyes on Cartman. Kyle's vision narrows as he furrows his brow hard-Cartman is oftentimes unexplainable, but malevolent force, after all.

"This is super sweet, Stan" Cartman says. He props his feet up on the dashboard; Stan, Kyle and Kenny jerk and make offended noises collectively. The bottom of his heavy goddamn boots are fucking filthy, Kyle confirms with disgust. "Let's take her somewhere, eh?"

"That's actually not that bad of an idea," Kenny says. He turns to Stan and Kyle. who stare at him, waiting for the explanation. "Why don't we test it out?"

"Stan doesn't have his license yet," Kyle says.

Cartman scoffs. "So?"

Kenny looks at Cartman, his face screwed up in quiet contemplation, then back at Stan and Kyle, nodding and unscrewing his face. "Stan looks old enough to drive legally," Kenny says, studying Stan's features. Stan stands up straighter, exerting his dominance or whatever, and Kyle raises an eyebrow at him. Stan smiles, sheepish like he's just becoming aware of his subconscious peacocking.

"C'mon," Cartman whines from the car. Unable to sit without entertainment for more than half a minute, he

has his phone out, and judging by the obnoxious music filling Kyle's ears, is playing some sort of game. "Don't be lame, you guys. Seriously."

Kyle looks at Stan, whose eyes are unfocused in the distance. Kyle knows Stan is thinking about it, considering it, and he groans. "You can't seriously want to do this," Kyle says. He ignores Kenny nodding and making encouraging hand motions at Stan.

"I really want to drive that car, dude," Stan says, and he places a hand on Kyle's shoulder. He reaches into one of his pockets and retrieves the car keys. "Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? We've done loads of illegal shit before."

Kyle can't deny that, and the way Stan's looking at him relieves him of all doubts. "Fine," he says. He turns his head and looks at Cartman. "But only if I ride passenger."

"Then I get to decide where we're going," Cartman says. He takes his feet off the dashboard and puts his phone away, then relaxes with both hands resting on his ample stomach. Stan, Kyle and Kenny stare at him for a few good minutes, waiting for him to announce their destination, but Cartman sits there with his eyes closed, body still.

"Well?" Kenny asks, breaking the silence. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"Huh?" Cartman cracks his eyes open and stretches like he just woke up. He raises his fists towards the sky, his bulbous belly rolling forward. Kyle makes a gagging motion for Kenny and Stan to laugh at. "Oh, right, of course, Kenny. There's a concert in Denver that my mom won't take me to. That's where we're going."

"Denver?" Kyle throws his hands into the air and spins around in a full circle. It may be dramatic, but it gets his point across.

"That's a little far," Stan admits.

Cartman shrugs. "Don't you want to take this sweet car for a ride?" He says it in a sickeningly sweet voice, batting his eyelashes. Kyle groans again and Kenny laughs. Stan remains blank-faced, looking at Cartman. Without replying to him he walks over to his car, unlocks the door and gets behind the wheel.

"Get in the back," Stan says to Cartman, pushing him against the car door. Cartman murmurs under his breath about greedy faggot Jews but nonetheless does as he's told. Kenny whoops and propels himself into the back, not bothering to unlock the door; the car bounces when he lands in his seat. Kyle looks at Stan, conveying the feeling of being completely done with all of this shit, and Stan just smiles, somewhat apologetic but mostly excited. Kyle is grateful for this, so grateful that he gets in the passenger seat and only bites at his thumbnail as they take off instead of complaining. Stan is a competent driver and Kyle can find no faults. Stopped at a red light on the first actual street they're on, everybody buzzing with nerves about getting caught and nobody voicing it, Stan reaches over and jostles Kyle's shoulder. Kyle smiles with his thumb between his teeth and then lowers his hand, resting both in his lap, and accepts the journey ahead.

It's afternoon by now and traffic is moderate pulling into the interstate. Stan rolls the top over the car to the protest of Kenny and Cartman and the silent thanks of Kyle-the wind had already been taking a toll on his hair. Cartman has returned to playing the game on his phone, shoved against the door as Kenny manages to stretch out and take up the most space in the vehicle despite being the second smallest person. Stan has the radio on a soft rock station, some guy's lonely voice drifting through the speakers. Kyle passes time by looking at Stan and feeling proud of him, for everything from accepting Randy's gift to the smile on his face to the way he holds the steering wheel like it was made just for him.

"Like what you see?" Stan asks at some point, low enough that Cartman and Kenny can't hear over the music of both the radio station and Cartman's phone. They're maybe halfway to Denver, an hour spent on the Highway already with no altercation.

Kyle rolls his eyes at Stan but the upturn of his lips is enough of an answer. He looks out at the road in front of them and watches the hood of the car eat concrete. Nerves fizz inside of him. Despite all the other insane and illegal shit he's done that's been thousands of times worse than unlicensed driving to Denver (without even telling his parents) this feels the most dangerous. Car accidents kill people, after all. But then again there's Stan beside him, steady and reliable Stan, the Stan that would never let something hurt Kyle. Assuredness and anxiety battle it out inside of him.

Kenny chooses this moment to jolt forward, putting one hand on the corner of Stan's seat and the other on the corner of Kyle's seat. Kyle jumps, putting a hand over his heart. He is not enjoying Kenny's new habit of surprising him.

"Jesus, Kenny," Stan says. He doesn't even give a sideways glance towards Kenny, his eyes glued to the road, and assuredness wins inside of Kyle for now.

"Sorry, not sorry," Kenny says. Kyle balks at him. Kenny's got the widest grin on his face, his mop of hair even more disheveled than usual from riding with the top down earlier, eyes wide and bright. Kyle wants to stick a piece of wheat between his teeth and dress him in overalls, he's giving off such strong all-American farmer boy vibes at the moment. Kenny ruins this image by taking the hand on Kyle's seat and ruffling his hair, knocking his head around for a bit, animosity (his hair!) joining the battle inside of him. "It's getting boring in here," Kenny continues, like that's adequate explanation.

"Gotta agree with the poor kid," Cartman says from the back. From some pocket he's pulled out a bag of candy-coated chocolates. He's eating them one at a time, gloating, but Kenny's the only one that's affected, staring with envy at the candy. Envy turns to amusement as he kicks Cartman in the shin for the poor kid comment.

"Well, what would you like to do?" Stan asks. Kyle rolls his eyes again, this time for indulging the clearly childish behavior of both Kenny and Cartman.

Kenny shrugs. Cartman moans about his injured shin in the background. "We could play I Spy?"

"We're on the fucking interstate," Kyle says. "There's nothing to spy but other cars and trees."

"Well, I guess that's true," Kenny says. He hooks a finger on his bottom lip and rolls his eyes around to the upper right corner of the car. There's a beat before he slaps Kyle's seat, slams his body back into the backseat, and exclaims, "We could talk about sex!"

"Kenny, you like to talk about sex as much as Kyle likes to talk about money," Cartman says. One hand is rubbing his shin through his pants and the other is gripping his phone. The obnoxious game music cuts off as he puts the phone away. Kyle realizes he'd rather have it than Cartman's voice filling the car, noxious and omnipresent as pollution.

"I do not like to talk about money," Kyle says. He crosses his arms and puts one leg over the knee of another one. Stan takes a hand off the wheel to nudge the toe of Kyle's foot, then replaces it on the wheel.

"Uh, you're a Jew," Cartman says like Kyle's the stupidest person he's ever met and this is common knowledge.

Kyle shoots a glare at Cartman, quick and dirty. "Cartman, I swear to my unforgiving God, I will have Stan pull this car over and kick you out if you don't cut that anti-Semitism out right this second."

"You sound like our mom," Kenny points out. Kyle ignores him.

"Considering the amount of sand currently shoved up his vagina, that makes sense," Cartman says, snickering as he goes through the sentence. At least he stopped with the anti-Semitism., Kyle thinks, sinking lower in his seat.

Conversation peters out for a few minutes before Kenny clears his throat and starts to talk. "Since nobody's going, I'll share first. Red's not the best lay I've had, but she's passable." Kenny grins and stretches, pride exuding from every pore. Kenny and Red have been dating for three months and it's been four since Kenny and Bebe broke it off. Kyle cringes at the memory. It had been a messy, emotional breakup. Kenny had told him, their backs against Stan's bed as he napped on top of the sheets after a grueling football practice, that Bebe confessed to having an abortion just a week prior to their public hallway breakup. It hadn't been the abortion itself that upset Kenny-he was cool with that-it was the way that she hid it from him for so long. She'd been two months along. Kenny professed this all with tears in his eyes and trust in Kyle to share it with no one (except Stan). The public believed Kenny and Bebe's breakup inevitable, their dramatic personalities too similar to be compatible, but Kyle believes Bebe to be Kenny's first love.

"I had to buy Wendy a promise ring to get her to put out," Cartman says, scowling. "Bitch should want me anyway." Kyle doubts that Wendy has put out yet, but he doesn't get a chance to argue, the thought fleeting in his mind before the realization of Cartman buying Wendy a promise ring hits him. A promise ring.

"You bought Wendy a promise ring and she accepted it?" This is Stan's contribution, his mouth slack with shock and disbelief. He and Kyle exchange a look, Kyle mirroring Stan's incredulity.

"You can see for yourselves on Monday," Cartman says. He crosses his arms over his chest and nods, satisfied with himself. Kyle cradles his head in his hands. There's a headache blooming just behind his eyes that he wants to rub away.

The rest of the ride passes without further incident, Kenny chattering away about anything and everything. Stan's confidence spikes when they get off the interstate and he leans back in his seat, wrapping an arm around Kyle's and relaxing his posture. Cartman gives them shit for being fags; Kenny punches him in the chest; Cartman whines about his tits for the remainder of the drive to the venue. The show is cheap and shitty as per Cartman's music taste and they wind up standing midway from the stage, bodies pressed against them in all directions. Kyle hates it-hates the band, hates the people, hates the dirty outdoor arena-but Stan stands behind him, arms around Kyle and chin on the top of Kyle's head, swaying their bodies like they're at a more mellow and not some horrible screamo grunge hybrid death metal shit concert, allowing Kyle to at least enjoy hating it. Cartman throws his weight around and ends up a red, sweaty mess with his shirt ripped and smelling horrible, prompting Stan to complain about what that's going to do to the upholstery of his precious new car. Kenny dies in the moshpit, providing a somber tone to the ride home.

They're back in South Park by two o'clock in the morning, dropping Cartman off at his house and then heading back to Stan's, where Kyle's spending the night at again as a sort of birthday gift along with his actual one, hemp seeds. Kyle's parents trust him when he's with Stan and Sharon seemed to be too preoccupied with being depressed over Randy's actions to care where her son went. Kyle can't believe that it worked out perfectly, that he just went to Denver and back with an unlicensed driver and without dying or upsetting his parents, and it's sort of setting his veins on fire with excitement. Stan is tired, though, falling victim to highway hypnosis and the exertion of the concert. Kyle takes a shower and asks if Stan wants to join him and Stan says no with a pained expression, peeling his clothes from his body and crawling under the sheets of his bed in just his boxers. Kyle showers and dresses in pajamas before getting in beside Stan, who is somehow still awake, waiting for Kyle.

"I love you," Stan says as Kyle nestles into his chest. In this simple declaration Kyle knows there to be things hidden: gratitude, exhaustion, disbelief. Kyle closes his eyes and feels Stan's heartbeat slow, his breath even, he falls asleep without giving the Kyle the chance to respond. That is the level of comfort they have, Kyle thinks in the few seconds before he, too, gives in to sleep, that Stan is able be assured without words.


	4. Two-Headed Boy, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's been nearly two years and this chapter is 2.5k words long. You can drag me for it, I don't mind.

A week later Stan has ascertained his actual, legal license. Another Saturday morning, this one brisk but lacking snow (a rarity this late in the season) and Kyle finds himself once more on Stan's couch, hands wrapped around a mug of some coffee and hot chocolate concoction that tastes delicious. Stan's arm is around his shoulder and a strange buzz hangs in the air above them—the night before, in a blanket fort made at the foot of Stan's bed, they had gotten so close to losing their virginity, naked and limbs blurring between them. Lack of resources and the urge to hide their faces from one another had stopped them, but Kyle is certain that he will not survive the weekend without being breached. He's not uncomfortable around Stan—he's almost too comfortable, burrowing beneath his arm and pressing their sides into each other—but almost impatient, definitely antsy. This has been a long time coming; this is something Kyle has thought a lot about; this is something he aches for.

"Let's get out of here," Stan says just seconds after the credits of the movie they had been watching begin to roll. The ants inside of Kyle go haywire, crawling up the walls of his stomach, and Kyle separates from Stan, nodding at him with vigor.

"I'm so ready," Kyle says, at least three implications lying beneath the words. Stan gives this strange sort of small smile and takes Kyle's hand in his. This agitates the ants inside of Kyle as they make their way from his stomach up his throat and down below, dangerously close to his crotch. He is really, truly, completely ready.

Kyle views his life as if there is a movie camera trailing behind him, tracking his every move with his lens to make it into a teenage summer blockbuster, lighthearted music floating in the background. Stan holds Kyle's hand as long as he can before they're forced to separate, and then Stan pushes Kyle up against the passenger side of the car—not roughly but gently, a Stan sort of push—and kisses him. It's too chaste of a kiss for the way his bulk is imposing upon Kyle's body and Kyle paws at Stan's chest, needy, but Stan wrings himself away and walks around his car to the driver's side. Kyle is flushed as he opens the door and slides into his assigned seat.

"Alright," Stan says before shifting the car into gear, taking off down the road he lives on. And, God, the way he drives—so responsibly and smoothly, gliding, relaxed—is making Kyle hard. He flushes and shifts his seat, sees Stan notice, sees Stan smirk, and then swats at Stan. "Dude," Stan says. "It's okay. Me, too."

Kyle groans.

They get on the highway and although Kyle is jittery and has just drank coffee, he falls asleep. He is roused when Stan pulls off on the side of some desolate back road; Kyle can tell by the smell of the air and the way light filters through the heavy coniferous trees that they are nowhere near home. A check of the time and Kyle sees that it is hours later and he feels ancient as he climbs out of the car and stretches. There are wildflowers cropping up around the wheels that Stan is frowning out, but then, in the middle of a yawn, Stan laughs.

"Where are we?" Kyle asks, rubbing at his eyes. The jittery feeling is coming back to him in spurts, remembering why they're here, wherever  _here_  may be.

"Near the border," Stan says. He's looking out at the road. "I, uh. I thought it might be romantic."

Kyle can sees where he's coming from. So far away from home, surrounded by breathtaking nature, Kyle feels a bit like he's been folded into the pages of a fairytale. He comes up behind Stan and wraps his arms around his waist, lays his head on his shoulder. There's a gentle breeze; it's nippy and they're underdressed, a shiver passing through Kyle's body as he tightens his arms around Stan's. Heat is a distant memory Kyle yearns for but he is reluctant to withdraw from Stan, to make any sort of move at all.

Stan starts talking. Kyle smiles into his back. "I love you so much, you know, ever since I can remember. It was only ever you. And this is—lame, or whatever, but I want you to understand how much this is going to mean for me. Growing up my parents always told me that sex was something you did with a special person and, like, that's not true for everybody, but I want it to be true for us."

Kyle can't see Stan's face, but he sounds choked up. His little speech is a mishmash of romantic tropes and lines stolen from elsewhere, but Kyle loves it. If he were to squeeze Stan any tighter, Stan's eyes would probably pop from his head like one of those childhood toys, so instead Kyle loosens his grip and tugs on the back of Stan's t-shirt.

"C'mon," Kyle whispers. Birds are flying overhead. "Let's do this thing."

Stan turns around; the intensity of the look on his face shocks Kyle and sends another shiver down his spinal cord. As a general principle, Kyle would define their love as slow and gentle, but now he feels like he's been struck by lightning and, as a result, set on fire.

It makes the most logical sense to get into the back of Stan's car, which is vast in its vintage, so they do. Stan pauses to turn the car and the heating on, and Kyle is kind of worried about the battery but mostly happy for the heat, so he says nothing. Then, once they're secure in the backseat, blushing and suddenly shy, they start to undress each other. Their shoes; Kyle's shirt; Stan's shirt; Stan's jeans; Kyle's jeans; and then they are in boxers and socks, skin already flushed and slick to the touch, both half-hard from anticipation alone.

"Well, this is it," Stan says, hooking his fingers in them hem of Kyle's underwear. "This is your last chance to back out."

"Why the fuck would I want to do that?" Kyle says, and for the first time since they drove out here, he presses his lips to Stan's.

In response, Stan tugs Kyle's boxers down, in an exquisitely and painfully slow manner. By the time Kyle's cock is freed, springing out of his boxers like somebody had called its name, he is fully hard. He lets himself fall back and open up. He lets Stan tug on his dick, lets himself get a little lost in the pleasure, before guiding Stan's hand away so he can get at Stan's boxers.

Kyle has a different plan. He scoots back on the seat and becomes acquainted face-to-face with Stan's crotch, trying to roll the hem of Stan's underwear down with his teeth. That is ineffective, so instead he just rips them off with his hands. Then, before Stan can response, he gets his mouth firmly around Stan's cock, licking and sucking with all that he's worth. Stan's hands curl into Kyle's hair, but then he's withdrawing Kyle's head, a string of saliva forming between Kyle's lips and Stan's cockhead.

"Gonna come if you do that," Stan says by way of explanation, sheepish. "Think we should—"

"Yeah," Kyle breathes.

Stan reaches under the sheet and finds some lotion (Stan's car is getting messier and messier—Kyle reminds himself to nag Stan about it sometime in the future, because it's verging on gross levels) that he uses to slick his hands up. And then Kyle is laying down, Stan climbing over him while reaching down below to run a single finger through the cleft of Kyle's ass. Kyle shivers, goose bumps rising on his hot skin. He sees that Stan's cheeks are red, and he cranes to kiss them, while Stan inserts his index finger into Kyle's hole.

They've done this before, many times before, did it last night, even, but it never stops being so good. Filling and emptying, Kyle thinks, it only makes him want more. In preparation, Kyle wraps his arms around Stan's back, nails digging into his shoulder blades. A second finger, and then a third, and Kyle is gasping for air between the words  _please_  and  _fuck_  and  _me_.

"As you wish," Stan says. Kyle's cock lurches.

Kyle has a shit pain tolerance. He pretends he has a high one, wants to put on a brave face for the world, but that never quite works out. So he winces when the tip of Stan's dick presses against his hole, braces for the pain. It is the most surprising moment of his life—and also arguably the best—when Stan pushes in, slowly, and there is no pain, just a feeling of contentment so strong it makes Kyle's head spin. It makes Kyle forget that the backseat is uncomfortable, that there's a seatbelt digging into his back, that they're parked off some country road in someplace Kyle doesn't know. All of Kyle's attention, every nerve and every atom, is drawn to that one focal point, and when Stan is up to the hilt they're both gasping like they've run a marathon and maybe they're both crying a bit, but they're also sweating so it's hard to tell, and Kyle is grasping at Stan's back as hard as he can.

"This feels so good," Stan says, his eyes closed. He looks like those hot tops in porn, and if Kyle wasn't so turned on by it he'd probably be laughing.

"I know," Kyle moans, and he shuts his eyes, too, so that all his senses can be properly consumed.

They don't last long. There's no way in hell they could last long; they're teenage boys, they've built up to this for years, they're in love. There's also that edge of paranoia—they haven't seen a car, but there's always that chance. So Kyle hooks his leg up around Stan's hips, too, which allows Stan to hit an angle that elicits groans from the both of them, and Kyle also reaches down to touch himself. Stan seems to notice this and wraps his hands around both Kyle's and Kyle's cock, and fuck, Stan has big hands. Big, callused hands, from throwing a football back and forth and winning games, and for some reason this is the thought that pushes Kyle over the edge, his come spilling all over everything. Stan comes a split-second later—you could call it a mutual orgasm, if you were fanciful like that.

Stan stays on top of Kyle for a few heartbeats, his bangs swinging into his eyes and his arms shaking, then slides out and adjusts himself and Kyle both so they can lay somewhat comfortably in the backseat while holding each other. Through this process, Kyle thinks about how they hadn't used a condom, and worries for a split second that he might get pregnant.

As if he had read his mind, Stan's head snaps up and twists at an awkward angle so he can look Kyle in the eye. "Should we have used a condom?" Stan asks, his voice hurried and distressed.

Kyle laughs and pretends he hadn't been worrying about the same thing two seconds ago. "Not unless you've been lying to me."

"Safe sex is important, Kyle!"

"Dude, calm down." Kyle strokes Stan's arm. This is not the pillow talk he had envisioned.

"And we're going to get come on the upholstery." Stan groans and lays back down. "I'm dead-ass tired, but we probably need to get going."

"Stan," Kyle whines. He doesn't want to move. He wants to live in this gelatinous, post-orgasm state in the back of Stan's car forever.

"I know. I'm sorry." Stan kisses Kyle's head and then sits up, fishing around for his clothes. Kyle follows suit, though he's slow to dress and irritable. He's cleaned his stomach off with a towel Stan keeps in the car for after football practice, but when he settles into the passenger seat Kyle realizes with a cringe that he's going to spend the ride  _leaking_. It's uncomfortable and unsanitary; Kyle fantasizes about going home and taking a shower.

The sun sets on the drive back, Kyle realizing just how far Stan drove indeed. He texts his mother and tells her he's sleeping at Stan's house again, unable to imagine leaving him in this moment, daring to let the sun into his eyes just to look at Stan's profile as he drives.

This day will live on in Kyle's memory forever, undeniable, an oak tree planted in fertile ground. But in the same manner that leaves make up a bigger whole, Kyle will remember the instance in both specifics and a generality. Flowers springing up around tires. The sound of Stan's breath in his ear and the low thrum of the heating vibrating through him. Black silhouettes of bird pressed against a cloudless sky. Stickiness. The superimposed, supersonic smell of Stan. The ache in his thighs as he bends them backwards that will persist. A sense of fulfillment and happiness previously unknown and, maybe, never to be known again.

On principle Kyle rejects sentiment and sugar but already, everything that is growing here is his favorite. Beautiful and perfect and not an ounce of regret; idealized and lovely. Stan takes his hand and squeezes, lowers it so it rests on Kyle's thigh. Kyle burns. Kyle cries. Stan strokes the back of his hand.

"Don't cry," Stan is saying, even though there's tears in his eyes, too, even though they've just passed the  _Welcome to South Park_  sign, even though there are stars in the skies.

"I'm not sad," Kyle says, wiping at his eyes with his free hand, hiccupping laughter.

"There's no reason to be."

South Park is empty at night, everybody tucked away in their houses, even on a Saturday. Eating dinner, watching television, doing their homework. Little families in little houses, prepackaged and ready for your consumption. Like turning on a television and tuning in, sometimes. For the first time Kyle becomes cognizant of his hatred of South Park and his dual, deep love for Stan; for the first time Kyle pictures them as people that have already ascended. If he closes his eyes, this car is a spaceship. If he closes his eyes, he is not here.

Stan pulls into his driveway.

The illusion shatters and falls out of Kyle's mind. They exit the car; they go upstairs and shower; they eat dinner. They watch television and they touch each other. Their first time sits, antiqued, in Stan's car, where it will live forever, where Kyle will pretend he can smell semen and Stan and their souls forever tangled together uncomfortably in the backseat, freckles and tan against beige, love and laugher and wildflowers springing up around tires.


End file.
